My book club is discussing Marilynne Robinson's Home. We, the eight of us, seven women and an occasional man take turns choosing a book and hosting the discussions, followed by snacks/food that relate to the book's themes, locale.
This is not an easy book to read. One of our members excused herself.
I had a tough time making it through a chapter without sobbing inconsolably.
Most of us already have exchanged quick reviews, phrases like "This book talks about my family!"; or, "This is the heaviest thing I read this year!"
I've chosen this book. And I'm hosting the discussion at my house, in the sun room, with a view of the new garden spaces. The pear tree will attract many to go down to the orchard and pick a bucket or two. Peas and beans and broccoli and cucumbers and zucchini and fava and lettuces and even strawberries will be picked clean by this afternoon. I wanted all this to happen at this time, a sort of emotional landmark for me, and for everyone to know that I survived this year and things are growing and producing, that tough things happen to all of us, (including to the characters in the book), and that we go on, and plant gardens, and cook, and visit with each other.
I'm preparing chicken and dumplings, hoping my dumplings turn out better than the dumplings cooked by the protagonist. For dessert, apple pie and pear cake, both from fruit in my orchard, mimicking how the protagonist constructed her pies.
We'll talk for a couple of hours; we'll choose the next book; we'll exchange tid-bits about the goings on in each others' lives. For a couple of hours my home will house a community of like-spirits, all sharing words written by a stranger, about strangers, from a time and a place most of us might find similar to our childhood, and for those hours we will piece together what it is to feel at home, for the protagonists, and for ourselves.
Home is an important book; it will engage you deeply.
